There's No Such Thing as Paranoia
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: The first inkling Reese had that word of his survival had circulated to unintended ears was when an all-too-familiar, rough edged drawl interrupted a breakfast meeting at the Lyric Diner.
1. There's No Such Thing as Paranoia

**Title**: There's No Such Thing as Paranoia

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG/K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _The first inkling Reese had that word of his survival had circulated to unintended ears was when an all-too-familiar, rough edged drawl interrupted a breakfast meeting at the Lyric Diner._ 1300 words.

**Fandom**: Leverage Season 3; Person of Interest through 1.5

**Notes**: So I may've hinted in one of my tagfic that Finch had looked up a few other guys before he made his offer to Reese. And, you know, this is me. I figure this fic was inevitable. Title's part of an Eliot quote from The Studio Job: "When you've done the things I've done, there's no such thing as paranoia."

* * *

The first inkling Reese had that word of his survival had circulated to unintended ears was when an all too familiar, rough edged drawl interrupted a breakfast meeting at the Lyric Diner.

"Well, if it ain't John Reese. You're looking pretty spry for a dead man."

Reese looked up, startled. He'd noted a long-haired man in casual clothes entering the diner a few moments earlier, deep in animated conversation with a taller, darker skinned man, but his eye had slid right past them without registering anything particularly unusual. That wasn't very surprising, though, considering the identity of his guest; the man known as Eliot Spencer was one of the few true equals Reese had met during his years spent in service with the Agency.

He was smiling the same wolf's smile, though, as he slid onto the bench seat next to Reese. That much about him hadn't changed.

"You know how it is," Reese replied, smoothly. He'd heard the stories about the lost, though thankfully still living, girlfriend and the months left without rescue behind enemy lines. "A little fresh air, a little perspective can work miracles."

Spencer tilted his head in acknowledgement, then shot a sharp glance at Finch, who was watching them with a wary stillness behind the twin barriers of his menu and his square-framed glasses. "And a new master," he commented, in a tone half question and all caution.

Considering who'd taken up Spencer's leash after he'd broken with the government- a known international crime financier and illegal goods trader, according to the grapevine- that hint of bared fang seemed more than a little excessive. "I like to let him think so," Reese replied, then smirked across the table at his partner. "Finch, let me introduce you to-"

"Eliot Spencer," Finch replied, stealing Reese's thunder. Then he returned the smirk, as much as he ever did: a tiny crinkle at the corners of eyes and mouth. "You did not imagine you were the _first_ potential operative I researched, did you, Mr. Reese?"

Then he inclined his head respectfully to the 'retrieval specialist'. "Your hacker is very good, Mr. Spencer. But I had access to unrestricted government records in my previous life, and you have settled long enough in Boston to accumulate a number of loose threads there."

Spencer's hackles rose visibly: he stared narrow-eyed across the table at Finch for a long moment, then shrugged his shoulders and sat back again. "You're pretty good, too," he said. "But you can't hack a Russian gang."

He cut his gaze back to Reese, something that looked like amusement- or maybe approval- in the set of his mouth. "Word's been spreading about a ghost haunting the streets of New York. Six two, dark hair, dangerous sense of humor; always wearing a suit. So I had Hardison check it out; turns out the local cops are building quite a file. Gotta say, though-" he jerked a thumb toward Reese's hairline, "-I didn't believe the _distinguished_ part until I saw you. The gray's definitely new."

"Rather dashing, isn't it?" Finch commented, dryly. Then he turned his attention to Reese again, casually ignoring the interloper as he offered an explanation. "He was otherwise occupied by the time I tracked him down, in much the same field of employment. I saw no reason to disturb him."

"Much the same field?" Reese echoed in surprise. Then he studied Spencer again, paying a little more attention this time. The same wolf smile, yes- but there _were_ changes there, camouflaged by the cosmetic alterations Reese had noticed before. A certain relaxed tension in the way he carried his shoulders; laugh lines forming on a face Reese mostly recalled set in a scowl; a warmth behind his eyes that spoke of an actual soul somewhere behind those deadly hands.

...Possibly, he was projecting more into the situation than was there to be seen, but Reese felt inexplicably hopeful as he stared at his fellow ex-soldier. "Then you've stopped working for guys like Damien Moreau."

Spencer's eyes went a little flat. "He and I had... call it a difference of opinion. Took him down for good a few months ago with my new team."

"I must have missed the news; I've been... out of circulation for awhile," Reese acknowledged with a lift of his eyebrows. That must have taken some doing; Moreau had been untouchable for years.

"So I heard," Spencer nodded. "Was sorry to hear about it."

But not sorry enough not to be suspicious about Reese's survival- especially in light of his own experiences, Reese reflected. He could hardly blame him; he'd felt much the same upon first realizing it was Spencer who'd found him. "And your new team's overall goals...?"

"We... provide leverage," Spencer said, clearly quoting someone else. "Like your friend says- much the same field, I'd guess. Though we usually try for humiliation and financial ruin, not violent deterrence."

"...And you're _sure_ they knew what type of work you were known for when they hired Eliot Spencer?" Reese couldn't help but fire back. Perhaps the man really _had_ changed.

...In which case, perhaps Reese wasn't entirely a lost cause, either.

He dragged his thoughts away from that last conversation with Andrew Benton with an effort as Spencer chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many rich guys with secrets hire guys like me as enforcers."

Reese felt Finch's eyes on him again, prickling along his nerves, and looked up; Finch glanced toward Spencer, then back to him again, a faint disgruntlement in his expression.

"I believe it," Reese said, fighting the sudden urge to smile.

Finch pursed his lips even more primly and folded his hands over his menu. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Spencer? Or have you sufficiently discharged the concerns of your current employer?"

"Nah, I think we're good," Spencer said, looking over his shoulder toward a table on the other side of the diner. "Though it looks like Hardison's decided to eat before we go; I swear the guy has a hollow leg. Anything decent to eat here?"

Reese let the grin slip free this time, carefully not looking at Finch as he answered. "I hear the Eggs Benedict are good. But I'm afraid we won't be joining you; we were just about done here."

Spencer took the hint, sliding out of the booth again, taking a balanced stance next to the table. For all Reese was five inches or so taller and several years more experienced, he was glad the encounter hadn't come to blows; Spencer was all coiled muscle, and at least as thoroughly trained, while Reese was still mildly out of condition from the months he'd spent on the sidelines. He wouldn't have given good odds on either possible outcome.

Spencer seemed to be thinking something along the same lines, for he stuck out his hand for a shake, a business card tucked against his palm. "If you're ever in Boston," he said, gruffly.

Reese had no cards of his own, but Spencer had found him once; he could undoubtedly do so again. "If you ever have a _job_ in New York," he replied, meaningfully.

"Fair enough." Spencer smiled again, all friendliness this time without the snarl, then turned and paced down the row of tables until he slid into the booth where he'd left his companion.

Reese watched him go, then tucked the card into a jacket pocket along with the photograph Finch had passed him of the next person of interest. Time for them to leave.

"Sorry, Finch," he said. "Looks like you're going to have to pick another diner."

Finch blinked, then smiled- actually _smiled_, which made him look near Reese's age for once- and picked up his book.

"Not at all," he said, mildly. "It was a very... enlightening... experience."

-x-


	2. Operational Expansion

**Title**: Operational Expansion

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _There was something perturbed, even a little uncertain, about Finch's stance that plucked strangely at Reese's well-honed instincts._ 1200 words.

**Spoilers**: Sometime during Season 2 for POI; Season 5 for Leverage

**Notes**: For Azar, for Day 13 in Wishlist 2012, for the prompt: "The Machine doesn't only see crimes in NYC. Finch recruits the Leverage team to save someone in Portland." Set in the same universe as "There's No Such Thing as Paranoia".

* * *

"Finch?"

Reese set the box of pastries he'd brought down on the nearest shelf, assessing his partner's expression as he faced the cracked pane of glass serving as their situation board. Finch had already taped up a photograph and a printed copy of some document Reese couldn't read at that distance, nothing that immediately stood out as different from previous cases- but there was something perturbed, even a little uncertain, about his stance that plucked strangely at Reese's well-honed instincts.

"Finch?" he prompted the man again, casually turning to scan the interior of the room to make sure that whatever the problem might be, it wasn't inside the library. When that swift glance failed to turn up any mob enforcers holding a gun on Finch to ensure his silence, or torn-up books dangling from Bear's jaws, he cleared his throat loudly and continued. "We have a new Number, I see?"

Finch finally blinked, then looked away from the photographs. "Mr. Reese?" he said, as though surprised to see him, then frowned slightly as Reese's words registered. But it was an abstracted sort of frown, not one directed at him in specific. "Yes. However, there seems to have been... a development."

He didn't offer anything more by way of explanation, and Reese raised his eyebrows. "And does this development require some type of surveillance activity or intervention on my part?" It was a rare Number that didn't involve Reese crouching in the shadows with a camera or a pair of binoculars at some point- when he didn't just engage with the victim or perpetrator directly.

Finch sighed. "Not directly; but yes, I do believe your intervention will be required," he said enigmatically, then gestured toward the board as if the situation were self-explanatory.

Reese frowned back at him, then shook his head and slowly approached. He didn't recognize the man in the photograph, nor the name on what turned out to be an airline boarding pass- but the date and place names on the pass were slightly more informative. The man in question had _left_ New York City on a single layover flight headed for Portland, Oregon. Several hours before.

For the first year of their partnership, Reese had assumed that the Machine filtered the Irrelevant list by geographic location; there was no other simple explanation for the fact that every Number they were sent was from the local area. But after Finch had been kidnapped- and Reese forced the Machine's hand- it had broken pattern, sending him to Texas. Had he inadvertently reset some kind of limiting protocol? Would it expect them to hop around the country on a regular basis from then on? Expanding their operations beyond the city would be... problematic.

"Even if I left now, I would be several hours behind him, at best," Reese acknowledged. "Did you receive the Number before his flight left, or is there something else going on here?"

"Yes- and I'm afraid so," Finch sighed, turning back to the computer station to retrieve another sheet of printed paper and tape it to the glass. It was covered in a long list of telephone numbers and timestamps, with one line highlighted in bright orange; part of the Number's cell phone statement. "At five thirty seven this morning, one Mr. Derek Stone made a brief call to a burner cell here in New York. The Machine sent his Number to us at five thirty nine."

"And at five fifty five, his plane left New York," Reese concluded. "Then the call could have been a pre-arranged activation code for something scheduled to take place here, in the city. One significant enough that he wanted to have a solid alibi for the event."

"A plausible guess- but if that had been the case, we would probably have been sent the Number of someone physically involved in the scheme. No, whatever is going to happen- is most likely going to happen in Oregon."

"We're not _in_ Oregon, Finch," Reese pointed out.

"Yes, thank you for reminding me," Finch replied, very dryly. Then he glanced over at Reese again, a pensive expression furrowing his brows. "However- we do know someone who _is_. You do recall our meeting with Mr. Spencer a year ago, in the diner?"

It was Reese's turn to blink, reassessing. The name brought back memories of a compact man with killer's eyes and aim as accurate as Reese's, as like the CIA agent he had been at the time as two bullets fired from the same gun. But it also evoked a man with laugh lines forming around his wolf's smile and a companionable handshake, accompanied by a decidedly civilian coworker more in Finch's line.

"I'm not likely to forget," he said. "But I thought his new employer worked out of Boston."

"Mmmm. I believe we were a little occupied at the time- but there was some trouble with a man named Victor Dubenich, and they chose to relocate to the opposite coast." Off Reese's raised eyebrow, he added, "I've kept track of those few among my former candidates who have gone into similar lines of work- not because I thought I might still need to request their services, but in the interests of compiling statistics on the current trends in vigilantism."

"Statistics. Sure," Reese replied, smiling faintly at the hurried tone of his partner's explanation; he'd heard the like before, usually to the tune of 'I just read it for the articles' or 'it's not a comic book, it's _narrative artwork_'. But he supposed it was no business of his whether Finch was a fan, or just taking notes on the competition's methods; either way, Reese was secure in his position.

The smile faded, though, as he put a few more facts together. Obviously, if Finch had mentioned him, Spencer's team must be close to Stone's destination- and the Machine must have known that when it flagged Stone's Number.

Now he understood the expression Finch had been wearing when he'd arrived. Had the Machine been factoring Finch's prior research regarding provisionary assets into the ranking of the Irrelevant List all along? He already knew it had more initiative and more complex decision making abilities than any software he'd ever heard of short of HAL or Skynet; he didn't like thinking of _it_ as a threat, not when it and its creator had given him back his purpose, but Reese couldn't deny that it was a possibility.

...Not as long as it was still trying to fulfill its primary function, though, he decided, taking his phone from his pocket. "Well. He did say if we ever had business in his city..." he mused aloud.

Finch nodded, his posture relaxing a few degrees. "I rather thought the call would be better received coming from you," he agreed as Reese dialed.

"Spencer," a familiar voice answered curtly, seconds later.

"Eliot," Reese acknowledged. "Last time we spoke, you mentioned something about... providing leverage?"

The silence on the other end lasted only a moment. "John," Spencer replied, guardedly. "I'd say it's nice to hear from you again, but I think I'll wait 'til after you tell me what's going on."

Reese smiled, meeting gazes with his partner. "Let's talk."

-x-


End file.
